Through the Eyes of Autumn
by Chair on Fire
Summary: The interplay of sun and shadow rages more in the mind than in the battle of gods. Retrogression. Rated for darker content, written to emphasize both development and deterioration. Con-crit appreciated! *reuploaded for revision*


_He cannot explain why he reaches out to the darkness._

_From the moment the clouds of dream came, he knew all too well he had to walk. He knew the path was his own to carve from the moment shadows congregated about his feet, offering him the foothold to heights unsanctified._

_The shadow tendrils do not cling as he treads through gray to a deeper darkness. That the shadows do not so readily hold him would actually concern him, if he didn't already know these things. Hazel eyes do not waver in the face of blackness, and the whisper of shade against his feet does not reach persuasive kisses to his calves. _

_The change comes quickly. It is a faltering moment, to realize that he cannot bring feeling to his body. He blinks and breathes._

_And then the Dark stands before him._

_He does not feel the touch of bare feet to cold, knows somewhere that his steps must trace something like ice. Knows somehow that hopeful warmth is eaten by the blackness he breathes here. So he does not even feel the motion of fingers as he reaches to the god before him._

_Nor does he feel it the moment black-metal hand comes forth, pulls him close to a robe that is gray compared to this place, and holds him to white shoulder that rings colorless except for the geometry of crimson scars. Feeling is so far away by now that he does not even realize he falls like a ragdoll into that embrace. He does not realize his eyes have the will to close until a pale forehead meets his own, softly._

**You know why I am here, don't you, Haruha?**

_That whispering voice breathes gently into every corner of shadows, brushing along the edge of his mind and sparkling blue behind his closed lids. He opens his lips and forgets to breathe. _

_The word _yes_ touches his lips with motion and silence._

_It could be a moment, could be an eternity before that voice returns, white lips closer than before, voice lingering deep and odd into the airless surrounding._

**As the sun shall set, so shall it rise. And fall. And again.**

_He finds a numb whisper of touch as those pale lips brush his own, and as frostbite-frozen as the movement is, it's only with that touch that he finally breathes. He knows the smile is there without once having to focus his gaze upon the god. And the next words come softly, like a secret._

**As long as the shade lingers within your heart, I shall despise you, Haruha. With all the space between the stars.**

_He feels that metal hand shift, curling against his neck, but only the twist within his chest belies the sensation. His lips quiver, gently as voice finally presses into darkness._

…my name…

_His hand raises, gently, brushing the metallic one against his skin. _

…is Ishaku.

_The pause from the god is short but significant. When the chuckle comes through, it lingers in a tone as empty as monsterless, moonless and starless nights. _

**I think I should wish you to hate me.**

_The embrace begins to fall away, and he doesn't know what possesses him in that moment. But it's only then that senses kick in, that the shiver manages to pull all through and through him. And it's only then that his own dark eyes rise to meet yet-again-darker ones, his fingertips following after metal ones to linger in touch._

_Inhumanly black eyes spark with the fires of a strange, frozen hell. And the rageful flash in that gaze rips a brief panic through him, though even he should have become accustomed. _

_His eyes do not shift when metal-hand traces along the edge of his autumnal robe. Keeps watching forward, wills himself to relax and let his attention wander to metal, where hand brushes the inside of his thigh, against the scar darkness marked into him—_

_Then he screams._

_And it's only when he realizes what it is that has happened does the sound turn from pained to something that, maybe, could protest the action. _

_His knees might shatter from the way they hit numb-ice grounds. He doesn't even realize he is holding himself, tightly, shaking, as a low growl emanates from the god._

**The only mark here shall be your memory.**

_Things shift, then. The darkness surrounding begins to fade in tones of gray like dreams ought to be, and he can't stop shaking through and _through_. Hazel eyes rise warily._

_There may as well be fear in his gaze._

_But there's a strangeness. Even as the god drifts away, the expression upon palest features softens to something that's calmer. Something that could maybe be tender. Those colorless lips part._

**I despise you.**

_But the smile playing about the gods' features makes it strange, almost as if the darkness was saying something entirely opposite. As if this was the closest they would get to speaking the real, mysterious truth. His eyes lower, hands shaking as he holds himself, as black fades to gray and the shadows speak for the god,_

_**With all the space between the stars.**_

_He falls into gray._

…

The afternoon had set him in a relative peace for the coming battle. Hopelessness had at last shifted to an odd, kamikaze determination as he prepared to leave his home for the time being. Come the morning, he would brace himself between white furred ears as protectors took up the task of warriors and raced faster than the wind. They would battle what monstrosities had fallen from the heavens. They would win.

He has almost begun to hope, really, that the prophet was wrong. If they won – and surely they would – maybe it wouldn't come to an ultimatum. If they just won, maybe – maybe – the sun would not have to set, and he would not have to paint her glory from memory, alone.

It is a flimsy wish, but it is one that he can put resolve into.

In truth, it proves no task for him to adorn himself with armor and helm, alike. But he has been antsy lately, with his hands restless to do much more than paint, cradle, and fret. The prophet, simultaneously, has grown progressively quieter, with his own hands resting in lap, upon flute, or around babe. It was almost by mutual understanding that the prophet raised his hands to help.

"It is a fine suit." Says he with the pale countenance, with his eyes cast down to Envoy's wrists. He worked the ties for a moment before adding, "You certainly look the part with it on. Like a true warrior."

"'_True_'?" He quotes, one eyebrow darting up in quiet, half-humored skepticism.

"Well…" The prophet says, his lips curling with the tease. "Well, look at yourself, my friend! Artist, leader, grandfather… must you be all those things, normally, as well as a warrior?"

Dark hazel eyes shade, softly, as he chuckles. "If I need to be, yes."

The prophet's hands still against the wrist ties, and everything about him turns quiet, again. The artist pauses; he does not know why the boy turns so still without so much as obvious provocation. After a moment, he grips the prophet's forearm in a reassuring hold.

"We'll make it through this." He says, the determination resurfacing with that gentle assurance he always has. "We'll make it. Could even be that we do better – much better than we expect to."

Blue eyes are downcast, but he nods. "…could. I've been wrong before…"

And he can see it in the way the prophet quiets, so. He does not want the tragedy, but he does not want to be wrong again.

It takes a moment, but the prophet shifts, with an abrupt inhale and a smile half-forcing its way to his features. He gives a last tug to the strings around the Envoy's forearm, then lets his arm drop from the elder's grasp.

"You should go tuck Issun in, no? You'll be gone for a bit, heavens know he's bound to make a fuss – moreso that you're not going to be keeping your eye out."

"He'll be worse once he loses your hair to play with." Says he, with a grin and some careful humor to his tone. The prophet's eyes fall, but he chuckles half-heartedly.

"Sooner the better, then? After this, I… I'll be going to the capital, again. I probably won't be back."

This is no news, really, to the Envoy, but neither is it easy to hear. He nods, and watches as the prophet returns the acknowledgement. After a moment, the blonde stands and turns, and he knows better than to follow. The prophet pauses in the doorway, long enough to murmur a "I'm off to bed. Rest well, Ishaku, my friend," over his shoulder, before he disappears into a corner room.

The elder male is left there, then, and stands for a good few moments before wandering to the corridor where he'd left his grandson with papers and paint. His head feels heavier, and he's not sure if it is the thoughtful resolve or the helm that is putting weight on his mind.

He enters and smiles, at first, to see the mess of dark hair that sticks up in a miniature explosion from its tie, and again when seeing hands dyed crimson from the pigments. Only when that little face turns back to him, laughs, and claps his tiny hands do his lips fall from the warm upturn.

It only lasts a second, and soon enough he's got the babe scooped up in his arms, smile gentle and the words encouraging. Well aren't you just the little artist, you'll be just spectacular one day, and other things. And Issun giggles, tries to smear remaining pigment on the Envoy's cheek, and is caught by a larger and more practiced hand.

They laugh, they wash up, and by this time the little one is already almost asleep. It's no task to sneak into the side room and tuck Issun in next to the prophet, and to watch for a minute as the two snooze away, with Waka so quietly still and with Issun so rolling and restless.

It is only after the lights have been mostly put out that he pads into the corridor and cleans up the paint and the painted canvas of his little grandson. And it is only then that, with sad, determined eyes, he takes down an almost identical painting – his own – of a grand red-marked wolf, to put away until he knew for sure if this hope of his was so flimsy as to crash.

…

_He's so tired by now that he cannot think to fear as the gray of his dreams weighs down into deeper darkness. He doesn't move, doesn't bother to raise his eyes, does not even bother to fight the dream or the pain he knows will haunt him in nightmare and in waking, alike._

_He's so very through with it all that he cannot even weep._

_He does not care for more hurt and cannot care, even now when dream shifts to an almost-world that rubs salt in reality-torn skin. Darkness condenses and he cannot pull it from himself to fear, to hate, to _scream_. _

_He can hardly _stand_, with the pain in his heart and the blood that returns, every time, to trickle down his leg that is healed and scarred in any other world. He cannot care and can hardly hold himself up…_

_It takes long moments for colorlessness to shift and move. _

_And then, all he knows is that he is held._

_A dark-metal hand, one so uncharacteristically gentle in nature, one that so usually sharpens and bites into his skin, curls against his back and holds him high. He could swear for a moment that he heard the corner-shade whisper a mercy. _

_Slowly, he slumps into embrace. _

…

He counts down the days with a dreadful knowing.

He figures it best to count the days. Not so small an increment of time that he looses sight of the moments and forgets to practice with pigments and paintbrushes, nor so large that the years fall by too quickly. Passing the time proved a crucial thing, now. Waiting was important, key to it all.

He hates waiting.

Not so long ago a stranger walked through Kamiki village and something in blue gaze must have flickered where the dark of mind's eye pulls taught for vision. With a mourning expression, he'd declared it the to-be birthplace of a chosen one. So they made plans, and made them with the same feeling in their heart as if they'd ordered a casket.

And then there was merely time.

The prophet strayed away, taking to the larger cities since that day of declaration. Ishaku did not see the boy with the pale countenance and wind-chime demeanor outside of those few times he returned to check in with a smile weak and an overly-respectful tilt of his head. These stiff, sorrowfully fleeting appearances were the only ways Envoy knew prophet, though he thought of him often enough. When Envoy met wolf between her watch, he would place a hand upon her muzzle and watch her lupine smile. He would think of the prophecy and the prophet, and how very dim both had seemed.

The sun rose in the mornings, though, and in time he learned to put the anxieties aside enough to smile at the dawn. Being in Ponc'tan again after so long wandering between world and Plains proved a greater luxury than he could have at first comprehended. Those precious counting days sometimes passed when he would do not but touch the walls of his home, close his eyes, and see white. Sometimes, when days were yellow with spring and the nights were black and empty, he would close gaze to see white, and he would weep.

Some decades down the line of waiting, his first saving grace came to him in the form of bundled young life and dark eyes. A traveling life was no way to raise a child, they'd said, his daughter with a bittersweet smile and stepson with a grateful, serene and comforting hand on her shoulder. And he'd taken the responsibility, solemnly, strangely without bitterness in knowing that, artist though he be, he would not be traveling.

Maybe he had accepted that part already. Maybe this was just a new purpose that he could accept, kindly, and adore as much as his original chosen path.

Indeed, that little bundle of life became an amazing source of joy in a life that, at times now, seemed as desaturated as the sun-less winter. Observant eyes reminded him to watch the world with wonder, and the wide smile that was already more of a grin than anything else reminded him to laugh. After some time, he dipped infant hands into color-pigments and allowed his grandson to touch parchment. And then with a quiet sort of laughter, his soft and Issun's uninhibited, he recalled that there were such things as miracles.

The waiting became easier. But he hated it all the same, and hated the way it slowly twisted his insides into an apprehensive coma, hated the way it filled him with a numbness that, some mornings, he couldn't always blame on the prophecy alone.

It wasn't until years down the line, when the quiet panic was beginning to settle into his bones, that a second mercy came wandering into the village under the trees. Some magic had put them at equal statures, though you'd never have known it by the way blue eyes evaded his own.

He allowed the prophet to stay with him, partly for the sake of simplicity, partly for matters of business, and partly because he felt some odd responsibility for him. They did, after all, know something of each other. He knew of the prophet's crime; the prophet knew his grief.

One saving grace became the other's. Issun became fascinated by the new-comer, despite any and all initial aversion that the prophet had to the child. Ishaku was not sure what to make of the man with the sad blue eyes – not until the day when he caught grandson and prophet curled up together, asleep and both looking less anxious than they had in a long while.

The next time he asked the prophet after his flute, that he'd carried but never played before, and he received a smile and a song.

And they spoke of plans, they spoke of the day he'd prophesized. They spoke of the gods and, at night, they both watched the shadows with a great wariness.

But it became a bit of a saving grace for them all, he reckoned. Waka only hurt so visibly for a time, and then the worry only lingered in his gaze so long as they consciously counted the days. Issun took to playing with blonde hair, painting little things on pale cheeks, and laughing more and more. And he… he got to paint and watch and sometimes smirk at the play of prophet and babe.

Sometimes he could almost forget they'd planned the funeral of the sun.

…

_The darkness pulsates. Softly at first, and then stronger. When he opens his eyes, he does not expect to see anything so readily, but is captured to see that the shade is already separating, gray from black from coal. The pulsing continues until somewhere in his head he can make out the rhythmic vibrations mimicking sound and pattern._

_Music._

_The tune is haunting, though he can only hear it by some distant, primal perception of the mind. He stills in the half-formed thought that maybe the surreal sensation will fade, but..._

_There is black metal, streaked by red, that now extends before him and touches to his elbow, gently. _

_Coal eyes regard him in a way that he does not remember them doing before. The tilt to a gaunt, regal face bespeaks of things he's not sure he could, or should infer. He doesn't. But the question is there, anyway, and when dark-metal hand shifts down to his wrist, he mouths._

Why_?_

_Dark eyes speculate for a moment before the reply._

**Because you are of the Light, Haruha.**

_He has never seen another hand to the god, but it's sudden that he finds himself held close. The music pulses, again, and this time he can feel it more between them then around them. Something in him recoils and he glares._

That is not my name_._

**It is a gift. **

What for?

**Of interest. **

_A smirk passes his features, something that laughs at the god in his biting, mysterious way. It only falters a moment when he finds himself swept up into the embrace, taken in a circle of movement that could almost be dance if it were not so weightless. Even then, he continues the glare._

Why that name?

**It suits. **

Yeah? How?

_The challenge is not lost. The god gives a little smirk of his own as he snaps the painter into a sharp turn that roughly takes him around, snapping his vision first into nothingness, and then again to a desaturated robe and skin marked by red geometry._

**You are moreso like a spirit of the spring than you suspect. You have autumn's eyes, perhaps… but you are like the passing of winter.**

You still haven't told me why the name.

**We have named one another. **

_The shadows speak reasonably, obviously, as if on their own sound logic. The artist grimaces in a half-snarl, brings one hand up between their chests as he finds himself crushed closer. He tries to brace himself, but somehow still finds himself dragged in this waltz._

I named you no different than so many others have.

**But you named the Darkness. That is notable, Haruha.**

Do you take up every dare that is thrown at you?

**On the contrary. There was no dare, Haruha. I asked you, and you chose.**

Chose.

_It is more of a question, really, but he refuses to phrase it so. The dance stops so suddenly, and he is amazed at the way his legs already want to crumble. He hardly realized he'd fought it so hard, with how effortless it had been for the shade to shift him._

_Metallic hand slips from his arm, silently, as the form of darkness kneels before him. One arm still holds unyieldingly about his waist, and he cannot move away when by only the numbest of sensation, he feels a thin point of metal trace down his side and into the inner slope of his thigh._

_Dark eyes turn up to hazel ones, and they watch the artist's snap of panicked outrage. A smile, if it can be called that, curls underneath that gaze._

…**yes.**

_Comes the voice, a dark promise giving edge to the usual silken tone._

…**chose me. **

_There is only an instant before the pain hits, and it is strange that he screams, when so long before he had wished to feel something – anything – that told him he was alive in this place. He hardly even hears himself, except that the shadows quaver in some reverberation of it. _

_The god lays him out, gently, and he can feel the residual burn of a familiar pattern. The red of his lifeblood confirms the suspicion in its shape of flow; the Dark had marked him._

_The black is already fading to gray, but he cannot see past black eyes that he knows must be smiling, underneath. A pale face comes close and brushes a kiss to his eyelids as the world fades to gray._

…

He burns his palms upon the handle of the kettle that took too long to boil. Through hands callused and numb, he cannot bring himself to feel. He should have been able to feel by now.

The panic begins to settle in deeper than before. It is all he can do to steady his wrists as he tips steam and heat into the basin.

Quickly, then, perhaps maiming his hands though he knows no pain to measure it, he splashes the white-hot water to his cheeks, feeling only the soft crash of liquid to skin, but otherwise... nothing. He still blinks too quickly past the information captured in his eyes, so overwhelming compared to such wholeness as black.

He cannot even shiver into the cold, and the panic is rebounding faster than he cares to acknowledge.

Impulsively, head crashes water, filling his ears with hollow sound and his nose with thick vapor. The ripples cascade about his face, then stillness.

Moments pass.

He does not care to breathe. And why should he? His body made was made an urn to overflow with darkness. There cannot be room for breath. He cannot imagine that there could be room for breath…

The shaking of his hands against the basin begins to pulse through even his shoulders. Somewhere he knows he cannot hold himself up much longer, and behind closed lids a soft light flashes.

Something empties within his chest.

He sputters then, chest contracting against the liquid that seems to by some odd force come to his lungs as if it were air. His body rejects the liquid, startles him up above the liquid. Instant, somehow, he finds himself squinting eyes against the glare of limpid surface reflecting candlelight, eyes tearing up at the sudden twist of pain that comes with convulsions and burns. It takes him a moment to realize past the coughing that the steam sears him.

And the panic snaps sharply into an exhausted relief.

When he can cough no more, cannot even bring himself to pain any more, he falls, side crashing hard with floor and hair sticking to the salt water streaks under his eyes.

And then he remembers.

…

_It is as though his eyes have opened again._

_There are no corners to this place, no floors, walls, heavens. There is no whisper of air on skin, not even pain or color. He wants to whip around, to search for the different wavelength reflections of light, but there are none. Or he may not be able to see them if they were there. He cannot even tell whether or not he actually turns in search._

_It is cold. This place._

_He sees no people to speak, cannot hear voices as he knows them past a silence so full it drums in his ears. But there are words. Simple, knowing little things, whispers he doesn't know why he understands. There are too many for him to make out, but the purity of unspoken murmuring blackness is beginning to drive him mad._

_And then things still into an eternally deeper silence. _

_The dark pulses, softly._

_And again._

_And suddenly blackness clears, just enough to reveal a sway of robe into night and striking glow of red against a black metal hand. It could be a mere trick of vision, but for a split second, he could swear that a trace of would-be blue alights the slope of strange, colorlessly pale neck._

_Then he's left with the sight of blackest eyes, and the sense of déjà vu is stronger than he cares to admit. He'd back up a step but he has no mind as to how to move, or how to so much as breathe past the startle of something that is not entirely unlike panic. _

_He has only seen eyes like that once, before, over the smile of a grand white wolf who was marked red as diety._

_A smile curls under those brother eyes, and he knows that this is no goddess of light that faces him, but something that, in all essence, feels opposite from everything that the sun is. _

**You may name me.**

_The shadows echo, finally, in a congruous whisper that wipes him of absolutely all sensation. He forgets to breathe and just watches that smile with his eyes narrowed and his brows daringly furrowed. _

_There is a consequence for such an action. To name an enemy is to accept them, challenge them. The smile lingers on features that never suspected could look so human, and he knows that the shadows are not the enemy, not even for a light-goddess. Especially not for the Envoy of the Gods._

_With eyes daring, his lips part and he surprises himself by the whisper._

Yami.

_He speaks, clearly, without echo and he wonders if he even said it with how quickly it was taken and absorbed into the darkness. It proves the first real proof that he can breathe – should breathe – and the panic snaps deep between his ribs. He does not know how to run, much less how to take air in a place of sheer blackness. _

_His lungs contract and his mind races through the emptiness, wondering why, what, and could he even have made a sound…?_

_The only clue he is given to his being heard is the flash of red against a black-metal hand that reaches, places a finger under his chin, and lingers._

**Then I name you, Haruha. **

_His lips are parted, still, and though his glare meets that of he, the Dark God, he's faltering. He must be slipping into unconsciousness, but there is no place to go from here. He's already drowning in darkness, without breath or pain to cue it. Where is there to _go_ from here…?_

_The darkness smiles, and he could swear he hears a laugh. The panic snaps. Ice-metal hand touches around his throat but it feels more like strangling. There's laughter. He could swear it._

And when his eyes startle open, he still cannot breathe.

…Night fell and the time for young ones to rest drew upon the little village among the leaves. One could hear the small little whimpers from children in other houses as they clung to their parents for a sense of safety against the approaching time when only the stars and moon could stand watch to their dreams.

Then, the woman raised one slender brow at her wild-haired child as he leapt carelessly under his covers, turning his head to his dragonfly-wing window at an angle that would probably give him a stiff neck the next day.

And she asked as she tucked the covers around his restless shoulders, "Ishaku, my son, do you not want a nightlight as your peers, to banish the shadows?"

And the youth grinned a wide grin at his mother, wincing a little as she administered a gentle kiss to his forehead. And he said, "The shadows can't get me, Mum. Nothing can."

They smiled, oblivious to the pulse of night between stars that awakened inside a velvet cloak.

**The darkness laughed.**

. . .


End file.
